


Call me scent o' mental, but I'm crazy about you

by a beta perspective (Ejunkiet)



Series: Holiday-themed shorts [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fall fluff 2014, Fluff and Humor, Getting Together, M/M, Making Out, Post-Season/Series 04, Scent Marking, Scenting, Snarky Banter, Wolf Derek, no more puns - I promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-08
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-02-20 10:29:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2425388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ejunkiet/pseuds/a%20beta%20perspective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek moves back for only a moment to gasp quietly against his throat, "don't move, <i>please."</i></p><p><i>Please.</i> It throws him. Derek's voice is thrumming with something Stiles can't identify - somewhere in the vicinity of need, a desperation that makes his stomach clench, his chest tighten until his lungs restrict. Derek - Derek rarely asks for things outright, and when he did, he was never <i>polite</i> about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. pumpkin spice and all things nice

**Author's Note:**

> This is set several years in the future of the canon as we know it, post-s4 finale (with no spoilers aside from what are in the tags, and also with Allison abroad).
> 
> I’ve been sick all week, and so I thought some autumn fluff was necessary. Also, I’ve been looking after a cat who wakes me up every morning by rubbing her face against my nose and cheek. It’s too adorable.
> 
> This started as an exploration of a trope I secretly love, but it has grown into something else entirely.

"Derek." 

Derek is on his doorstep, a sharp figure in a low-cut woolen sweater and mittens – actual _mittens_ \- and windswept hair, the very picture of an autumn cover spread. If anything, Derek seemed to take his fashion seriously, even if everything he owned tended to wind up blood stained and in tatters.  
  
Stiles wasn't expecting him, but his sudden appearance is not unwelcome and he breaks into a wide smile. "It's good to see you."  
  
Derek's returning smile is warm. "And you. I was in the neighbourhood, and thought I'd check out your new place. Are your flatmates in?"  
  
"No -- most of them haven't moved in yet. The one that has is at her girlfriends. I don't expect her back for the night." Derek shuffles awkwardly on the step and Stiles resists the urge to roll his eyes. "Come on in, big guy, you must be freezing."  
  
Werewolves don't get cold, but he says it as much for the opportunity to call Derek 'big guy' than for anyone else who could be watching, and Derek judiciously supplies him with an eye roll as he steps forward, pausing on the step.  
  
Stiles glances at him when he doesn't proceed, raising a brow as he drops a backpack onto the decking of the porch. "You brought gifts?"  
  
Derek seems distracted, though, and after a moment he reaches forward, slowly but deliberately, until his fingertips brush Stiles' throat. There's a space of a heartbeat where he just lingers there, his eyes distant, before he encloses his hand around Stiles' chin, gripping lightly as he tilts his head back until the line of his throat is exposed.  
  
Stiles swallows, and can feel it as his Adam's apple brushes against Derek's grip - but Derek doesn't move away, doesn't try to explain himself. Stiles can feel the rush of his breath as he exhales, warm and damp against his skin.  
  
Stiles swallows again, and manages to sputter out "Derek, what?" before he presses closer, a wall of heat against Stiles’ front, something hot and wet skimming his jaw, until-  
  
"Are you- are you serious right now?"  
  
His voice is a little hoarse, cracking half way around the words as Derek's fingers dip down his neck, dragging lightly against the skin, and that's -- that's the sweep of Derek's tongue, flat and broad, following the same path as his mouth. There’s a deep rumble at his throat as a small noise that escapes him, somewhere between an embarrassing squeak and a strangled groan as his body catches up with exactly what is happening – and when Stiles shudders, the rumble deepens into a growl that he can feel in the vibrations that reverberate through his skin.  
  
Derek moves back for only a moment to gasp quietly against his throat, "don't move, _please_."  
  
_Please._ It throws him. Derek's voice is thrumming with something Stiles can't identify - somewhere in the vicinity of need, a desperation that makes his stomach clench, his chest tighten until his lungs restrict. Derek - Derek rarely asks for things outright, and when he did, he was never _polite_ about it. Stiles had always assumed that he had no patience for it, preferring efficiency over the dances of regular social interaction. Although, to be honest, he is no longer quite as abrasive as he was when they first met, and Stiles has really grown to like his dry, sarcastic way of dealing with the world.  
  
Glancing down, all he can see is the crop of Derek's hair before his mouth makes another sweep of his jawline, and Jesus, Stiles was not prepared for this -- was not prepared, when he opened the door of his rental flat this morning, to find _Derek_ of all people on his doorstep: caustic, non-verbal Derek, with a pinched expression and a backpack that lays forgotten on the porch.  
  
Derek's fingers brush his collarbone, his thumbs running soothingly across the skin in small circles of pressure that are at odds to Derek's normal aggressive demeanour. It'd be comforting, if he couldn't still feel the edges of his teeth against his jaw. The skin beneath the gentle - if persistent- abrasion of Derek's cheek is beginning to burn - and he's had enough of no-communication, thought their relationship was past that.  
  
Tentatively, he brings his hands up to Derek's shoulders, pushing him gently away with his palms - and he's half surprised when it works. Creating some distance between them, he manages a weak laugh.

"What _is_ this, exactly?"  
  
Derek's expression is grim, but looking closer, Stiles thinks he can detect a scattering of pink dusted across his cheekbones- and Stiles must still be asleep, must still be dreaming.  
  
He must have pinched himself as Derek releases a snort and grabs his wrist, holding it firmly away from his body.  
  
"You're not dreaming, Stiles."  
  
His tone is exasperated, but he looks embarrassed, not quite able to meet Stiles' eyes as he raises the hand holding Stiles', flipping them over together before - before bringing it up to his mouth and brushing his lips across his wrist.  
  
Stiles almost chokes on his own tongue.  
  
"Derek -- what's going on? What is this?" He mouths at Stiles palm, nuzzling against his wrist and Stiles' eyes almost roll back as he cuts off a strangled sound before it escapes his throat. Oh god. Derek - is going to kill him. "Please, you-"

“Shh. Calm down."  
  
His mouth brushes against his skin as he says that, still refusing to meet Stiles’ eyes as he trails his lips down his arm, brushing his nose lightly along the crease of his elbow before inhaling deeply.  
  
Stiles lets out a short laugh that has an edge of desperation to it as he struggles to hold onto the few remaining tatters of his sanity, and Derek moves further up his arm, skimming the sensitive underside until he reaches the sleeve of his shirt. It doesn't deter him, mouthing at the fabric before tracing it up to his shoulder, and Stiles grips his shoulder with his other hand, squeezing tightly.  
  
_"Derek."_  
  
Derek passes up and over Stiles shoulder, along the line of his collarbone to the collar of shirt, settling his nose in the hollow there as he takes a few deep breaths.  
  
It seems like an age before he finally pulls away, and there's no mistaking the flush that stains his cheeks, burning from the tips of his ears to the crest of his collar, peaking through the low dip of his sweater. Stiles probably isn’t doing much better: his skin feels hot and prickly, burning where Derek’s hand still grips his arm.  
  
"Well."  
  
He looks at Derek expectantly, but Derek just shuffles his weight from foot to foot, looking as if he's seriously considering making a dash for it. Stiles cheek and collarbone feel wet, cold in the chilly autumn air, and he's not quite sure what just happened.  
  
"D'you want to come in?"  
  
\--  
  
He makes them both a cup of hot tea - something Allison had brought back from her layover in London on the way back from her semester abroad - and shuffles into the living room with them balanced precariously alongside a plate of cookies, as it was that kind of weather and Stiles reckons he deserves a treat right about now. Derek stands from where he'd been waiting on the sofa, expression pinched once more, before he takes the plate, lowering it safely to the coffee table. Stiles passes him the mug - one of the three he owns that serve as glass, wineglass and occasional cereal bowl - before taking his place next to him on the love seat, their knees brushing. Derek twitches, looking as if he wants to shy back from the contact - which is unfortunately impossible on this tiny, ratty sofa; they really needed to buy a new one - before carefully settling himself against the back of the sofa with his mug.  
  
He looks awkward, but at least he no longer avoids Stiles' eyes, making contact as he raises his mug.  
  
"Thank you."  
  
"You're welcome." He gives him an easy smile, settling back himself and dunking his cookie into his tea, biting into it appreciatively. The cookies, surprisingly, were a present from Derek, a belated housewarming gift apparently, alongside a set of cutlery and oven gloves. He must have talked to Scott, as these were exactly the things he had complained about losing in the move a week before.  
  
"Now: not that I don't appreciate the unannounced visit, but do you planning on telling me what exactly happened out there?"  
  
Derek's ears turn a bright red, and he looks away again, burying his nose into the mug. It's too adorable, combined with the festive sweater and the blush that burns once more across his cheeks.  
  
"I wanted to apologise for that."  
  
"Sure. Mind telling me what 'that' was, though?" Stiles has an idea, of course – you couldn’t do so much research into wolf pack behaviour and not have _some_ clue what it means when a fellow pack mate does the equivalent of rolling all over you - but he wants to see what Derek has to say about it.  
  
If possible, the blush on Derek's cheeks seems to burn brighter.  
  
"It's -- been a while since we last met up in person. My instincts - got the better of me. I'm sorry it got a little weird."  
  
"Mm. Were you - 'scenting' - me?"  
  
Derek seems to crouch in on himself even further than Stiles would have thought possible with his hulking frame. His voice is nearly inaudible when he finally murmurs, "yes."  
  
Stiles breaks into a wide grin, and when Derek glances up he appears surprised by it, his eyes wide and startled, his mouth parting subtly,  
  
_"I knew it._ You're a big puppy after all."  
  
Derek narrows a glare at him, but there's not much energy in it, and it’s not long before he breaks under the power of Stiles’ enthusiastic eyebrow wriggling, glancing away as the corners of his lips twitch up into a smile. He lets out a beleaguered sigh, fingers fiddling with the frayed edges of his sweater as he inclines his head in a small nod.  
  
"It is partially to do with that. The wolf, that is, not the puppy part," he adds when Stiles' grin gets wider, and he puts his hand up when Stiles opens his mouth to make a quip. "Shut it. The full wolf transformation messes with my instincts. Makes some – the ones associated with pack - stronger."

"That definitely explains it."  
  
"Yeah." Derek smiles again, but it's weaker than before and there’s still a furrow between his brows. He looks uncomfortable, unhappy in his own skin, and Stiles doesn’t really think about it before he reaches over and places his hand on his thigh to reassure him, patting him there lightly.  
  
"It's okay. I didn't mind it. It was just - surprising."  
  
He smiles warmly as Derek glances back at him sharply, lips parting on a sharp exhale.  
  
"You meant that."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Derek is suddenly closer, their knees knocking together as he twists his body to face him, leaning forward. His eyes skate across Stiles features, a wonderful combination of green and brown that makes Stiles abdominal muscles clench and flutter and it's too much, too close-  
  
"Derek, seriously, I cannot be held accountable for my own reactions if you continue... _"_  
  
He trails off as Derek inhales deeply, eyes slipping shut, before they flutter back open again and Derek licks his lips. Stiles can't help the way his attention is dragged to the movement, before he manages to force his gaze back up to his eyes. He's gotten even closer somehow without Stiles noticing, and when Stiles opens his mouth to speak again, he closes the remaining distance, covering Stiles' mouth with his own.

It’s a gentle touch, chaste; his lips furtive against Stiles’ as they brush once, twice, before he’s moving back and Stiles’ blinks his eyes open – _when did they close?_ – to see Derek looking just about as shocked as Stiles feels.

“I-” His mouth opens and shuts, but he doesn’t seem to know what to say, the flush taken over his face again as his breaths come harder, matching the pace of Stiles’ own. “I shouldn’t have-”

Derek’s muscles tense, his eyes breaking away from Stiles as he glances around the apartment as if he’s looking for a way out, and Stiles – Stiles puts a hand on his chest, slipping up his throat until he can cup the side of Derek’s jaw and bring him in again. He pauses just before they meet, Derek’s breath intermingling with his as he licks his lips, rubbing his thumb behind the curve of Derek’s jaw until he looks at him.

“Is this okay?”

He exhales in a gust, murmuring a breathless “ _yes,”_ before he’s pushing forward again in a clash of tongue and teeth.


	2. sweater weather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Why are you wearing so many layers?"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the second part that sort of wrote itself. Incredibly self-indulgent fluff involving too much thinking and heavy make-out sessions.
> 
> I’ve had big news recently about a research opportunity that may send me overseas, so I haven’t had as much time to check over this as I would like, and as my beta is similarly busy, I apologise in advance for any typos/glaring errors.

\--

The sweater is the first to go, although to Stiles' consternation, it's the first of many, the one underneath just as garishly decorated as the first, and he pulls at the hem in frustration.

"Why are you wearing so many layers?"  
  
His words are slurred as Derek is busy dragging his teeth along Stiles' bottom lip, his arms reaching back to grasp at Stiles' waist, pawing at the layers of shirt he finds there. Derek releases a huff and rolls his eyes, even as he breaks away from the kiss to hover close, his breath hot against Stiles' lips.  
  
 "I think a better question is why are _you_." His grip tightens, squeezing against Stiles’ sides, before they drop to tug at the material. "Off."  
  
"Easy, easy..." Stiles lifts his arms up, and the next moment the shirts are gone, tearing across the room in a wadded bundle. "The heating isn't working, and we haven’t unpacked most of the blankets..."  
  
He suppresses a shiver, but Derek seems to sense it, pressing forward with a muted noise that sounds suspiciously like a growl -- but then the last of Derek's sweaters are gone as well, and the contact of deliciously warm skin against his chest chases away any thoughts of the chill in the air. Stiles presses forward into it, burying his face into Derek's throat and breathing him in.  
  
It's animalistic, and his dulled human senses are limited to things that Derek has recently come into contact with (musty leaves, a hint of smoke from a wood burner - he must have spent some more time working in the preserve) but it's the way that Derek reacts to it, clutching Stiles closer, that makes it worthwhile.  
  
God, it's intoxicating: the way Derek that reacts, the sweep of his hands across his skin as he drags Stiles closer until their chests are flush and there’s not an inch of available skin left uncovered. After years of idle attraction and simple want - that had at some point bloomed into a painful, deep seated desire for more than just sex, but all of Derek - suddenly, it was opened up to him: everything that he thought he couldn't ask for, and could never _have_ , and it's everything he thought it would be and more.

He settles there for a while, enjoying the warmth, the taste of Derek under his tongue, letting his hands roam aimlessly across the revealed patches of Derek’s skin – before Derek’s hands are settling on his shoulders, pushing him softly away. His pupils are blown, so far that Stiles can barely see the glimmer of green of his irises, but his features are pinched with concern. He reaches up, cupping Stiles’ cheek, and Stiles leans into it before he has the chance to think about it.

"Stiles. Are you okay?" At Stiles’ confusion, he nudges him lightly in the side. "You're trembling.”

“Wha- what?” Stiles pulls back to realise that, yes, his hands are trembling, and fuck if he knows why.

“We don't have to - you know we don't need to do this."

“N- no, Derek. Don’t worry about it.” He’s determined as he presses forward, as there is no doubt in his mind that he _wants_ this, sending a shudder through Derek as he skates his teeth along his throat, but for Derek can sniff a lie (even if Stiles is busy denying the truth to himself), and he pushes him back again with gentle hands against his chest.  
  
"Stiles, please."  
  
He holds him carefully, so carefully, as if he's afraid that this simple touch could cause him to shatter and something about it breaks through the mental block.

Stiles hides his face against Derek’s throat, nuzzling the skin as he takes a breath to collect himself.

"It's just -- I didn't think I could have this. With you."

It takes a minute before he can bring himself to glance up at Derek, who’s _smiling,_ for god’s sake. His grip tightens as Stiles makes to pull him away, anchoring him to his chest, his arms wrapping around him to hug him close.

"No, wait." His lips brush against his hairline as he speaks, a note of distress in his tone. "Please, wait. You don't understand.”

Stiles waits, biting into his lower lip as Derek leans back again, his eyes tracing over the lines of his face.

"I've felt the same way," he glances away, his cheeks dusting pink again, "for a while now."

Stiles is quiet, thinking it over, before he ducks his head, hiding his face against the side of Derek's throat and huffing out a laugh.

“We’re a pair of emotionally constipated idiots, aren’t we?”

Derek hums, but otherwise doesn't respond, fingers curling around the nape of Stiles’ neck, smoothing against his skin. After a moment or two, Derek moves to kiss his hairline, burying his nose there and inhaling deeply, before he lets his breath out in a sigh.

“You may have a point there.”

Taking the opportunity, Stiles shifts further down the loveseat – or tries, to, at least – changing the angle until he can press his lips against Derek’s throat. The reaction he gets is immediate, and he'd go as far to say that he’s addicted to the way it elicits a shudder, and the way Derek shifts beneath him. Stiles feels the way the breath catches in his throat, his hands splaying across the skin of his back, and Derek's palms are softer than he thought they'd be against his skin, large and warm as his fingertips press into his shoulder blades with pressure just shy of bruising.

Derek’s holding himself back, but Stiles has never been one to not press the boundaries, so he turns it up a notch, letting his teeth graze against his skin again, and the noise Derek makes is somewhere between a groan and a gasp, before he’s tugging on Stiles arm, dragging him up and attacking his mouth with increased ferocity.

It’s Derek who breaks away this time, a flush high on his cheeks and his lips red and swollen, voice a hushed whisper as he brushes his lips against Stiles’ hairline, mouthing gently at his temple.

“Jesus, Stiles. You’re – perfect.”

Stiles grins lopsidedly, cocking his head to the side, and he deserves the groan – of disdain this time – that Derek gives him when he breaks out a raunchy wink. “Why, thank you.”

Derek laughs, nuzzling forward into his temple, breathing in deep. “You have no idea. I’ve been thinking about this for years.”

“Years?”

Derek nods. “Since the first summer you got back from college. It just never seemed like the right time. I didn’t want to distract you, not while you were – moving on.”

Not when you had the opportunity to gain some perspective, distance yourself from Beacon Hills, have a chance to meet people your own age. It’s unspoken, but Stiles knows Derek, has seen every side of him: seen him brittle and raw, fresh from the death of his sister, arrogant and overconfident with the alpha power, self-sacrificing and reborn with the discovery of his full transformation. In fact, Stiles would argue that he knows Derek better than most people, maybe more than any other person still alive. And God, that thought is depressing.

Stiles draws himself back to the present, glancing up to find Derek’s eyes on him, dark in their intensity. He runs his fingers through Derek’s hair, trying to think of how to phrase this, how to best communicate this foreign feeling of emotion – as Stiles really doesn’t do this, do _attached_ : he’s sparing in his affection to a short list of maybe four people, and he’s not one to talk about how he’s feeling _._

For Derek, though, he wants to. So, he settles on something simple.

“We could have made it work.”

Derek smiles, but Stiles can see that he doesn’t really get it. “I know.”

“No, really.” Stiles pulls back, reaching out until he can grip the sides of Derek’s head, smoothing his palms across his stubble as he angles his face until he can look him in the eye. It means more than he can put into words that Derek lets him. “I want you, I want _this._ I don’t think I’ve ever wanted – anything, more. So: we will make this work. Okay?”

There’s a long moment where they just stare at each other, before Derek inclines his head in a nod and leans forward, brushing their lips together. “Okay.”

They return to Stiles’ favourite part: making out. At some point, Derek finds a point on his neck that makes Stiles' let out an involuntary noise, his toes curling, and Derek presses a smile into his skin.

“For the record, I may have been crushing on you for a little longer than that. Since maybe the first year I met you.”

He leans back just in time to see Derek try to smother a grin against his throat. He tries to retaliate, but Derek – the cheater - buries his face against the divot, working on the same point as before, and it's suitably distracting, even if Stiles can tell he’s going to leave a mark, the asshole.

“I know.”

The _total_ asshole.

He whacks Derek on the back for good measure, but doesn't hesitate in kissing him again on his _stupid_ mouth the first opportunity he gets.

 


	3. jeepers, batman!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s a reminder. I took the symbol from a totem that was passed down among the members of the pack to teach young wolves control.” He glances off to the side, frowning a little, as if puzzling out exactly how to phrase what he wants to say. “It is, in a way, my anchor.”
> 
> “I see.” Derek lets out another laugh at that, ducking his head to smother a smile against Stiles’ collar bone as Stiles heats up, his cheeks lighting up with an indignant flush. This was even worse than offending him. “Jeeze, take it easy there big guy. I'm glad you find my floundering so amusing.”
> 
> Derek noses at his cheek again, before leaning in to steal a kiss. Stiles can feel the curve of his smile against his lips.
> 
> “It is pretty cute.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick chapter reorganisation and clean up!

The shadows of the room are deep around them when Stiles first begins to wake; making the journey back to consciousness slowly, the same way a cautious traveler leaves his home for the first time. A strip of light from the waxing moon, hanging fat and low in the twilight of late spring, slips through the gap in the curtain, illuminating the bed. He can spy his feet tangled with Derek's, amongst the sheets near the foot of the bed, feel his heartbeat through his chest, slow and steady, within the loose circle of his arms.

It’s a stark contrast to the landscape of Stiles' dreams, full of lingering ghosts and flashes of silver in thick, suffocating darkness. Stiles coughs to clear his throat, swallows to remove the lingering taste of bile in the back of his throat.

He’s awake. He’s _awake._

It may have been years after the fact, but Stiles doubted he'd ever fully get over the nightmares.

It takes him a few more minutes to regain control over himself, unclench his fingers from the white-knuckled fists that tremble at his sides. It's only when he can take a breath without the air tripping in his throat that he allows himself to relax, the tension seeping out of him slowly as he lowers back into the warmth of the sheets, settling back into the steady grip at his waist that grounds him to the present. He feels calmer, moreso than he usually does after one of these episodes, but he'd be lying to himself if he thought he'd be getting any more sleep tonight.

There's a low sound at his back that Stiles can feel through their sheets, a deep rumble against his spine as Derek curls further around him, and Stiles realises that Derek is awake, too - has probably been awake this entire time. The bed creaks beneath them as Derek shifts closer, and Stiles can feel the soft exhale of air before Derek presses a kiss against the nape of his neck, lingering as he buries his nose into Stiles' hairline and inhales, long and deep.

"I missed you."

"I missed you, too."

\--

Stiles hasn't seen Derek for at least a month.

Okay, that may not be technically true - as Stiles has _seen_ Derek, but he's loathe to accept Skype conference calls as an acceptable substitute for the real thing. But the real thing had been stuck on the other side of California, whilst Stiles worked on finishing his degree.

To say that Beacon Hills had been busy would be an understatement. In the advent of another supernatural creature outbreak – this time from Eichen House, which wasn’t at all surprising if Stiles was being honest - as seriously, who had come up with the idea of locking all the ‘big bads’ up in one place? Had no one else followed the Batman comics and seen what a stupid mess the city had become after all the criminals of Arkham Asylum had eventually broken out? – the situation in Beacon Hills had deteriorated rapidly, until Derek had become a permanent fixture within the Beacon Hills Sheriff’s department. While he was ostensibly there as a consultant, although it was clear for anyone to see that he was doing the lion’s share of the work rounding up the ‘patients’ as the town veered dangerously close to disaster yet _again._

Of course, Stiles hadn’t heard much of this until _after the fact_ , though. This was a point that he had been sure to bring up with his father after he'd returned home from his second semester in college to find the High School closed down for repairs yet again, and a simultaneously excited and sheepish Scott had filled him in on the details.

(And seriously, Stiles had done a shit-ton of research into the fae -- he _should_ have been called, and his dad knew it, if his sheepish offer to pay for the annual maintenance Stiles' usually runs on his Jeep was of any indication)

During all this, Derek had still somehow managed to show up on his doorstep, all warm sweaters and clumsy kisses, and then _this_ had started.

Over the following months, they had split what free time they had between Beacon Hills and UC San Diego, as Stiles worked on getting to know _this_ Derek – the one open to affection and vulnerability – whilst simultaneously attempting and failing to not fall further head over heels. It's a work in progress, but at least they were both happy, content with the small measure of peace they'd managed to find with each other.

Recently though, it had become more and more difficult for them to find time for each other; finals, and Derek's official induction into the Sheriff department's payroll nearly eliminating their free time altogether. This weekend heralded the first time Derek had been able to spend the night over at Stiles' place instead of making the trip back up to Beacon Hills. They even had the added bonus of relative privacy, since Stiles' flatmates were out of town -- and Stiles had plans to make the most of it.

\--

It's late - late enough that the moon has only just begun to set, and the main light in the room is the ambient glow of technology. The only sound comes from just to the right of his side of the bed; a faint whirring, that upon investigation, reveals itself to be the cracked-open screen of a laptop from where it’s been placed on the floor – _Stiles’_ laptop, which is currently going on the fritz, internal fan whirring madly as the out-dated technology tries desperately to cool itself down.

If Stiles was translating it right, it was overheating. Derek must have moved it without shutting it down last night after Stiles had drifted off somewhere near the end of the second in their LOTR marathon; it was an old computer, and finicky as hell if it was left on for more than a few hours at a time.

He rolls over to shove at the screen of his laptop, before falling back into bed, and back into Derek as his arms snake around him, pulling him in close. Stiles stretches in his grip, luxuriating at the tug of his muscles, the steady pressure of Derek's thumbs rubbing slow circles into his side. He falls back until he’s facing the ceiling, blinking away the tiredness and peering into the darkness as he waits for his eyes to adjust, and he can spot the slow curve of Derek's smile. He smiles back, and Derek's grip shifts to squeeze his hip.  
  
"Hey."  
  
"Hi."  
  
The sheets shift as Derek lifts an arm, a silent gesture for Stiles to close the distance, and he's happy to oblige, turning over fully until he can throw an arm around Derek's waist, fingers spread across the hot expanse of skin and muscle. He rests his other palm to lay against Derek's chest, watching the rise and fall of his breathing, the way the light blends their movements together.  
  
Derek's lips brush against his temple, smiling as he wraps his arms more snugly around Stiles and exhales a long gust of air.

“How long have you been awake?”

Derek doesn’t say anything, and it's the lack of response more than anything else that gives Stiles his answer.

If there is one thing that Stiles has learned over the last few years, it’s that Derek doesn't sleep around other people. It's either a result of his wolf-related stamina (which, honestly, Stiles can't complain about), or the result of the trauma of the last decade of his life, or some combination of the two – but either way, it's just one of the things which makes Derek, well, _Derek_. Another note to be filed away in the sparse, but steadily growing file named ‘sour wolf’, for posterity’s sake.

If he thinks about it, it should bother him just how little he knows about Derek, even after all these years. That's misleading -- as he _knows_ Derek; Derek's told him some of his past, and Stiles has learned more of it from other sources, probably more than Derek realises. He knows Derek is a self-sacrificing idiot who would stop at nothing to protect a pack mate; he knows Derek cares for him, possibly as much as Stiles cares for Derek. However- if Stiles was asked to name a book he likes, or a TV show he follows, he wouldn't be able to come up with an answer.

It's ridiculous - as he sees Derek reading all the time, around the loft, around his old room in dorms, the bindings flexible and worn from frequent use – but they’d never talked about it. It should be easy – just walk over and peer over his shoulder, or even just turn the book in his hands.

(But, more often than not, there’s this smile that Derek's wearing when he’s reading, small and soft and fragile, and Stiles doesn't want to interrupt, _can't_ interrupt those moments, in case he manages to scare it away altogether.)

Besides, they're still early enough in this that Stiles doesn't want to really push at him, force his way past the boundaries they had established years ago. He's also a coward - self professed and proud - and he's willing to admit that he's afraid: afraid that if he lets Derek know the extent of it - that Stiles wants to know the secrets behind each and every one of his smiles, parse out and memorise their patterns like a well-loved storybook- then he'll frighten him away. And that'd be it. Over.

A light touch to his shoulder shakes him from his thoughts, the warmth of Derek’s hand shortly followed by his mouth as he nudges forward, pressing a line of kisses against the underside of Stiles' jaw. The kisses grow more heated as they trail along Stiles’ throat, leaving a particularly visible mark at the juncture of Stiles neck that will be a bitch to hide beneath his t-shirt unless he wears a turtleneck - until Stiles is almost too distracted to notice that Derek is practically on top of him, his hands gentle even as he presses him into the mattress.  
  
"You’re thinking too much.”

“Am I?”

“Mhmm.” He bites at the soft spot just beneath Stiles’ ear, and Stiles lets out a yelp, fingernails digging into skin where he clutches at Derek’s shoulder.

“You _asshole_.” He’s practically breathless, with arousal, annoyance, even he can’t tell as Derek lets out a low laugh, soothing the area with his tongue before moving back down Stiles’ neck as his hands creep up the skin beneath Stiles’ shirt.

“Care to share what’s on your mind?”

Stiles’ hands still from where they’ve been tracing the lines of the tattoo on Derek’s back, and even though he’s not saying anything – yet – he can tell that Derek can hear his thoughts as if he’s speaking them aloud. He pauses, drawing back until their faces are only inches from each other, a smile tweaking his lips as he waits for an answer, a brow quirked expectantly.

Nevertheless, it’s still takes another long moment for Stiles to clear his throat, brings his thoughts into order and put words to what he's thinking. Even then, he has difficulty - and he wants to laugh at himself, as Stiles Stilinski was _never_ at a loss for words.

Yet - this is uncharted territory for them. He wants – he _wants_ to know, but that doesn’t mean he wants to push, especially not for secrets that Derek may not be prepared to divulge.

“I was wondering… if there was any other meaning to this.” His heart is beating a fast staccato rhythm within his chest as he traces the line of the outermost spiral, his breath catching when he feels the shift of Derek’s muscles under his hand. “I mean, other than the symbol itself.”

There’s a short moment of quiet where Stiles can’t quite bring himself to meet Derek’s gaze and focuses on his lips instead; the strong line of his jaw, the clean, clear cut of his cheekbones. His head is filled with the thudding pulse of his heartbeat, before Derek lets out a short exhale, and he’s leaning forward to press their lips together again in a soft kiss, his hand raising to cup Stiles’ face as he trails his lips up, and up, until they press against Stiles’ brow.

He laughs, then; a low, soft chuckle, his eyes gleaming when he pulls back to meet Stiles’ eye, although his words are calm and serious.

“It’s a reminder. I took the symbol from a totem that was passed down among the members of the pack to teach young wolves control.” He glances off to the side, frowning a little, as if puzzling out exactly how to phrase what he wants to say. “It is, in a way, my anchor.”

“I see.” Derek lets out another laugh at that, ducking his head to smother a smile against Stiles’ collar bone as Stiles heats up, his cheeks lighting up with an indignant flush. This was even worse than offending him. “Jeeze, take it easy there big guy. I'm glad you find my floundering so amusing.”

Derek noses at his cheek again, before leaning in to steal a kiss. Stiles can feel the curve of his smile against his lips.

“It is pretty cute.”

Stiles makes a small noise at that, and the kiss deepens, Stiles clutching him closer as his hands dig through Derek’s hair, tugging at the strands. It’s just the right amount of perfect and it’s definitely working as a distraction. It takes some will power, but Stiles finally breaks away, chest heaving as he struggles to regain his breath.

“ _Unfair._ I can see it being very difficult to maintain a conversation with you in my bed. Jesus-“ He breaks off with an intake of breath as Derek takes the opportunity to mouth at the exposed line of his throat, biting at his collarbone, “Derek, _god_ , you’re playing dirty.”

“Am I?” Stiles whacks him on the shoulder even as his cheeks heat up, and he has to visibly bite his lip to keep anymore noises from coming out, and this was so _unfair._

“You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to, but I’m going to need to get some sleep before my early classes tomorrow.” He can feel the shape of Derek’s lips as he pouts against his skin, before he’s pushing away, a vague shape in the darkness as he curls around Stiles’ left side.

Derek takes in a long breath, letting it out as an exaggerated sigh. “Alright. If you want to ask me questions, go for it. Ask me anything.”

Stiles can tell by the way Derek's breath hitches, as if he's suppressing a laugh, that his face must be doing something exaggerated and hilarious in response, but he really can't blame his own reaction. This situation was entirely unexpected. "Anything..?”

Derek lets out an ugly snort that degenerates into another series of long, grating chuckles that he tries and fails to smother against his hand. Stiles gets revenge by tucking his toes against Derek’s calves, grinning at the jump of muscle when he makes contact. In retaliation, Derek leans forward to trail his hands down Stiles’ torso, digging his fingers into his sides until Stiles shrieks, nearly tumbling the both of them off the bed. “You’re going to lose your window…”

“Fine – _fine!”_ He bats Derek’s hands away, scowling in his general direction as he hopes beyond hope that the darkness will be enough to hide the full-body flush he's got going on here. He doubts he'll be that lucky - Derek could probably smell it, actually - but he can hope.

Derek clears his throat pointedly, and right, a _question._

“What’s your favourite colour?”

He can feel the weight of Derek’s unimpressed stare, even if he can’t see it -- but hey, there's merit to the philosophy of starting with the small things. Besides, if this conversations continues on to where Stiles suspects it will - and really, Stiles can't be surprised that it had come up so soon, not after this many years of knowing Derek, helping Derek,  _caring for Derek_ \- then Derek will appreciate the slow warm up.

“Green. Next question.”

“Favourite artist.”

“Johnny Cash.”

“Wait, _what?_ ”

“Next question.”

“You can’t just…fine. Favourite book?”

This gives him pause for a moment, and for the first time, he doesn’t provide an answer straight off the bat.

“The Secret History.”

Stiles hadn’t heard of it. He made a mental note to look it up later and takes a deep breath, exhaling long and slow. It does nothing to settle the butterflies dancing around in his stomach, so instead he focuses on the steady warmth of Derek beneath his hands. Shifting forward, he presses a long, slow kiss against Derek's mouth, taking his time as his fingers map the lines of Derek's chest, until both of them are flushed and breathing heavily, reluctant when they finally break apart.

He wants to ask him, then - breathing in tandem, impossible to tell where one of them ends and the other one begins-  but the words catch in his throat, and instead of putting forward the question he wants to ask - _needs to ask_ \- Derek pulls away.

For a moment all Stiles can hear is the rustle of cloth, before he realizes that Derek is disentangling himself from the sheets. That was- no. Too soon.

“I’m putting forward a formal protest. You are not allowed to leave this bed until morning.”

Derek gets close enough for Stiles to see shit-eating smirk he gives him right before he tears the blanket back, letting in a flood of cold air into Stiles comfortable little nest. His response is less than dignified, scrambling back with a yelp as he simultaneously curses Derek’s name and cruel sense of humor. Derek laughs at him again, but soothes the insult with another kiss, chaste and sweet, before he pulls away completely and gets to his feet.

“I’ll be right back. Take the time to think, as it'll be my turn when I get back.”

Oh. Oh _shit. "What?"_

"What, you thought you'd be the only one who'd get to ask questions?"

Stiles is beginning to regret not putting his allotted time to better use. "Shit."

"Eloquent."

“You’re a goddamn tease, Hale.”

Derek’s voice is a combination of amusement and exasperation as Stiles listens to the sound of his feet padding away into the darkness. “Takes one to know one.”

**Author's Note:**

> [ main blog ](http://ejunkiet.tumblr.com) / [teen wolf blog](http://abetaperspective.tumblr.com)


End file.
